Crazy Talk

Rumor has it that Ronald Reagan, while governor of California, emptied the state mental hospitals and sent busloads of crazy people to Berkeley. I always believed it was true, because growing up in Berkeley, one commonly saw individuals talking to themselves. Some quietly, some angrily, some neatly dressed, some in costume, some bedraggled by homelessness. Many of these characters -- primarily those in costume -- had names such as the Polka Dot Man (one day, I noticed that he had connected all of his dots), the Orange Juice Man (his son went to Berkeley High with me), the Hate Man (former journalist, turned cross-dressing, street-living character), The Screamer (she once yelled at me "you are a freak of nature!"), Rare! (he was a large man who would stick his head into various establishments and yell RARE! as loud as he could). More were just crazy and nameless.

When I was little, in addition to the safety basics of "look both ways before you cross the street" and "don't take candy from strangers," I was taught "don't look crazy people in the eye." It was sage advice, it turns out, which I tested later in life. Eye contact with crazies invites some unexpected form of interaction.

Crazies were fairly easy to identify, if not by their attire or lack thereof, then by their externalized, verbalized, internal monologues. They talked to themselves, and you'd give them a wide berth.

The onset of cell phone with earpiece has made this identification process much more difficult. At first, the crazies still outnumbered the cell phone users, and when I saw person talking to him or herself in Berkeley, I would assume, "crazy" then realize, "no, just cell phone." Then it became a quick seizing up: "cell phone or crazy?" These days, I simply assume "cell phone" while noting that the one-sided conversation often sounds crazy.

Recently on BART, a man with a blue earpiece sat talking quietly. All at once he announced loudly "I am talking to myself, but I am NOT CRAZY! I just have a lot of bills to pay!" Apparently, the crazies now have cell phones.

I don't know what to do.

Fun in the Desert

I've been travelling in Baja with my family. We actually are on our way home. The girls are so excited to be home again (lily misses her stuffed animals, molly her bed), that they agreed to a 12 hour drive from Loreto to Ensenada, rather than taking 2-3 days to do it. We only had two whiney moments which is testament to their dedication to the cause of home.

Driving through the desert, I suggested we play our usual car game of "I spy".

Me: "I'll go first. I spy, with my little eye, something green"

Molly: "a cactus"

Me: "right. your turn"

Molly: "I spy with my little eye, something blue"

Lily: "the sky"

Molly: "right. your turn"

Lily: "I spy with my little eye, something brown"

Me: "the dirt."

Lily: "right"

After the white clouds, the yellow signs, and the black road, the game was essentially over.

The things kids learn in school these days...

"Mommy, today I taught Delia how to eat her boogers. I told her, 'if the grownups forget to give you a snack, you can just eat these.' But I haven't taught her about eating the eye stuff yet."

"I'm sure her parents will be thrilled."

(discussion follows re: hygiene and public opinion)

Kids are like monkeys

Lily was in the bath. She rubbed her finger across the top of her nose, found something there, and put it in her mouth.

"Lily, what did you just eat?"

"It wasn't a booger, Mommy"

"Okay, but do you know what it was?"

"No."

Wonderings, and The Best Intentions Perhaps Gone Awry

"Mommy, do princesses poo?"

"Yes, Lily. Everyone poos, no matter who they are."

"Oh." . . . (long pause) . . . "Do princesses have fancy poo?"

"No. It's just poo."

(then added for my own amusement)

"I don't think poo could ever be fancy unless someone ate a lot of glitter, then maybe the poo would sparkle. . . "

(realizing my mistake - Lily might want her poo to sparkle - and backtracking)

" . . . but eating glitter wouldn't be good for your body."

"Oh."

What should I do next?

Molly recently gave one of her old bathing suits to Lily. It is a one piece, with multicolored hearts against a black background, with ruffles along the neck and a built in skirt. A cute girly-suit my stepmom, Shi Wei picked up in China a few years ago. Lily wore it this weekend. I was folding it up and for the first time really recognized that there was writing on the suit as well. As many words as hearts, but I'd never given them much notice as they just seemed part of the design. Well, I thought I'd read them. This is what they say, over and over, covering the entire suit.

"Love affair"

"Love affair was gone"

"Sweet Lovers"

"Gone Happiness"

BART Haiku, March 20, 2008

Man in a plaid suit
Swinging bag of bloody meat
Disturbing dinner

BART Haiku March 19, 2008

Franciscan friar
Robed in white, sits next to me
Dear God, I giggle.

Coincidence or Conspiracy?

Last week I read a book whose main character is named "Thursday." Imagine my surprise when I opened a new book this week with a main character named "Wednesday."

A Warm and Happy Place

We met this sculpture over the weekend at the De Young museum in San Francisco. Shaun and the girls and I were picnicking around Golden Gate park and found this happy spot directly in front of the sculpture. Actually, I saw the sculpture and chose the spot. Shaun came up later and commented, "of course my wife chooses to sit directly in front of the vagina." Which I did. And not only did I get to enjoy the artwork, but I was able to watch a slow but steady progression of children (including my own) who walked up to the sculpture, felt the vagina hole, and then climbed inside. One little boy, about four years old, sat for a moment in the vagina. Then a big smile came over his face and he exclaimed to no one in particular, "I love it in here!"

I wondered if the artist intended or expected this to occur, and if, perhaps, the artist ever spent time with his or her vagina, watching the public response.

The Amazing Power of Deductive Reasoning

A Bit of History

My grandmother (mom's side) died a few years back and while we were cleaning out her apartment (actually, we were looking for anything we wanted to have), I took several diaries and papers showing family history. They have been sitting in a bag on a shelf, unopened since I returned from her funeral. I've been thinking about them for a few months now and finally took a look. One of the diaries begins during World War II, when she was in her early 20s, dating my Grandfather who was about to be sent off to war. She hmms and haws about whether or not she really likes him, then a few months pass and suddenly they're married and pregnant and he's on a ship overseas and she's madly in love. I'm up to her eighth month of pregnancy (I'm a little concerned because she's happy about losing ten pounds, but I guess my mom was born and lived so I can let it go), he's landed in England, and has just told her that he learned that her brother made it there safely as well. They write to each other every day, sometimes twice, but the letters take a long time to reach each other. Most of the pages are filled with her daily doings -- cleaning, eating, teaching her mother shorthand, fighting with her sister. But the context is so interesting.

Anti-Music

Buskers often entertain us with blues, classical, mexican, bluegrass, rock, you name it, as we go to and from the trains through the BART station. The other day, a bedraggled man with matted hair and a long beard pulled out his violin. I actually doubt that it was his violin, only because it seemed like he had never played one before. He energetically (madly) drew the bow back and forth across the strings, making angry screeching noises. I did, at first, give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking perhaps it was some avant-guard performance. But after a few minutes of listening while I purchased my bart ticket, I came to the firm conclusion that he did not know how to play the violin, and was in fact purposely playing anti-music. I wish I had checked to see if he had the case out in hopes of dollars, because now I wonder if he were playing only to annoy, or whether he genuinely hoped some commuters would appreciate his (insane?) effort.

Lily, age 5

"How was school today, Lily?"

"No one played with me today."

"Really? Well who did you play with?"

"Just Sadie and Rosa, they were the only ones who played with me."

"And what did you play?"

"Pirates."

"Oooh. And were you a pirate?"

"No, I was a unicorn."

"I see. So was Sadie a pirate?"

"No, she was a unicorn."

"And what was Rosa?"

"A unicorn."

"Oh. Were there any pirates in your game?"

"No."

"Well, that sounds like a fun game."

"It was."

I still think it was a party.

On a beautfiful Sunday morning, Shaun and I and the girls made our way on foot from our house to the Thai Temple for a Berkeley brunch. On the way we passed the neighborhood halfway house and as we approached, it sounded like a gathering was taking place, with many gay voices chattering away. How nice, I thought, that they would do something festive on a sunny Sunday. But when I looked in the yard, there were only four or five people. Each was talking to him or herself.

If I Had My Very Own Parking Place...

Quickest Way To Heaven

In Erie, PA one can get fried cheesecake. So we did. It's your basic cheesecake wedge that has been rolled in egg whites and bread crumbs and then dropped into the deep fat fryer. The result is a tasty, warm and crunchy outside and your traditional cool cheesecake inside. Mmmmmm.

Christmas List

Molly suggested we get Lily a "time-out" chair for Christmas this year. I'm considering it.

I'm back

Or least I'm not completely gone anymore. Finished my last final yesterday. Maybe now I'll notice the world around me and have something to say again. I did notice yesterday evening after the last final (shouldn't every final be the last?), over beers with my fellow tired law students that we could barely speak to each other. There was lots of sighing, a few groans over remembered exams, then general commiserating over how it was time to rejoin the world -- do laundry, shave beards (not me). Alice commented that she might try to explore the city a bit this vacation -- she's been here two years and hasn't seen anything other then what occurs along the route to and from school. Caroline announced that she plans to go grocery shopping, noting she was reduced to eating old peanutbutter sandwich crusts for dinner last night. I also noticed that suffering is much more fun in a group environment.

I have nothing to say.